letter from mommy: month seven

Dear Turkey Monkey,

Yesterday you turned seven months old. I would have written earlier, but I was too busy yelling at Gido for letting you have some of the ice cream cake from Dairy Queen that we got for Uncle Harvey's birthday. "What are you DOOOIIIIIIIIINGGG? He can't have SUUUGGGGGAAAAARR before bedtime! He can't have MIIIIILLLLLKKK before he's a year old!" I whisked you out of Gido's arms as though he was shovelling uranium or boogers into your mouth - or something even more awful, like Super Baba's head cheese - and five minutes later, I realized I have to get a grip. Because you're seven months old now. You might as well be a teenager. A drooly, sometimes smelly teenager who can't walk (or crawl) yet, let alone steal mommy and daddy's car to joyride over the bridge to Hull to see strippers with Lucas. It's just a matter of time, I know...

Speaking of which, I think you must be a leg man, because this past month you started drinking formula from the sippy cup with such gusto that it's almost like you've forgotten about mommy's boobies altogether. Which may be just as well, since you just cut your bottom two teeth, and we all know nipples and incisors don't mix. At least not all the time.

By far your best parlour trick is waving hello and good-bye. I don't think you know what you're doing it for, but you still do it, and this morning when we pulled out of Grandma and Gido's driveway to catch the plane back to Ottawa from Halifax and you waved good-bye to Grandma, I think you made her very proud and broke her heart all at the same time. Or maybe that was just me.

Boh, when I first met your daddy I knew he was the one for me because I could share my air with him. We could lie together, nose to nose, and I wouldn't have to move my face so I could breathe my own oxygen, so I didn't feel like I was choking, which is how I would have felt with anybody else. I could breathe with him; that's how I knew. It's how I knew he would be the great love of my life, how I knew he would be the daddy of my babies.

I feel kind of the same way about you, except for you? For you I would not only share my air, I would give it to you if you needed it. All of it. If only one of us was allowed to breathe, there is no question who would get the O2. This is how I know; this is how I know you are my baby and I am your mommy, how I know I love you more than anyone or anything that exists in this world.*

Boh C'est Bon, I love you so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so much. And so does your daddy. Now could you please just put the learning to crawl thing on hold for a couple more months? Thanks. Owe you one.

Love,

Mommy

* Caveat for potential future children: I love you all the same. Swear.